


would you trust him with your life?

by ShowMeAHero



Series: first family [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Pregnancy, Secrets, Trans Male Character, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23189897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: Priorities.Richie almost wants to fucking laugh, becauseprioritiesare an easy thing to sort when there’s not one huge, obvious Priority hanging over his head that heknowsneeds to come before everything else. The problem, though, is that it should be Eddie’s priority, too, but— How the fuck is Richie supposed to tell the fuckingPresident of the United Statesthat his first priority can’t be the literalUnited Statesanymore. Fucking—George Washingtonmade this shit, and Richie’s destroying it all.The point being, Richie’s filled out pretty nicely. He’s a big guy. He comes out to about 6’3”, all told, and the boots he usually wears even him out to 6’4”. He’s broad and tall and big and that makes him happy, but italsomakes it a lot easier to hide what’s happening from Eddie.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: first family [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1678099
Comments: 17
Kudos: 265





	would you trust him with your life?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princessDameron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessDameron/gifts).



> For [princesDameron](https://twitter.com/princesDameron) in their President AU AU!
> 
> Title taken from a quote from The West Wing.

When Richie went through puberty the second time, he filled out pretty nicely. He was proud of how much he had grown, about the growth spurt he’d gone through and the way his shoulders had broadened and his jaw had squared out and his body had ended up covered in more hair than he’d seen on another human male before. The best part was, he’d fucking _loved_ it. He _loved_ how masculine he was. He’s secure in his body; he’s happy with it, more than anything, and it’s taken a long time to get to that point.

He knows it’s better to keep things a secret. It’s bad enough that Eddie’s presidency is already considered radically left, bad enough that his polling numbers in big chunks of the country are worse when Richie appears with him, bad enough that he already struggles with his role in all this. If nothing else, he’s organized as hell, he’s a _good_ Chief of Staff, but there are other— other people, other people who won’t ruin _everything._

Eddie always says it doesn’t matter. That no matter what, they’ll be together officially and without needing to hide when this is all over. That it’s not only what’s best for them, but what’s best for the country, and that has to be Eddie’s priority right now.

 _Priorities._ Richie almost wants to fucking laugh, because _priorities_ are an easy thing to sort when there’s not one huge, obvious Priority hanging over his head that he _knows_ needs to come before everything else. The problem, though, is that it should be Eddie’s priority, too, but— How the fuck is Richie supposed to tell the fucking _President of the United States_ that his first priority can’t be the literal _United States_ anymore. Fucking— _George Washington_ made this shit, and Richie’s destroying it all.

The point being, Richie’s filled out pretty nicely. He’s a big guy. He comes out to about 6’3”, all told, and the boots he usually wears even him out to 6’4”. He’s broad and tall and big and that makes him happy, but it _also_ makes it a lot easier to hide what’s happening from Eddie.

For the first few weeks, even Richie hadn’t known anything was wrong. Eddie had made a couple of comments about him acting off, but then Stan had said something, too, and Richie had had to actually evaluate if he was sick or not. Stan made him go to the fucking _doctor,_ for fuck’s safe. He’s always making him do shit like that, telling him it’s for his own wellbeing and the wellbeing of the President and the wellbeing of the _nation_ and all that shit.

Usually, Richie cares more about the office and the country and everything that comes with that. He worked tirelessly to give all of that to Eddie, after all. He knows how important it is, he _knows_ how much it means.

That day, he’d just been glad for Stan’s habit of overreacting to every minor thing, because his primary care physician had told him he was pregnant, and Richie had thrown up in their wastepaper basket, and then he promptly did absolutely nothing about it.

When Stan asked, Richie said it was a stomach bug that passed. He told Eddie the same thing. There’s a whole bullshit mess, two days after that, where Eddie’s needed out in Switzerland and Richie needs to stay behind to keep negotiations open with Congress while he’s gone. Richie had just been glad for the time to think things through, at which point he’d decided two things: one, that he was going to keep this baby; and, two, that he was going to keep this baby a _secret_ for as long as he could. From everybody. No exceptions.

Eddie included.

Which he knows isn’t right, he _knows,_ but he’s also— There’s not exactly a fucking precedent for this. He can’t just open a self-help book or even a fucking history textbook and look up what happened the _last_ time the unwed and gay President of the United States knocked up his unwed, gay, and trans Chief of Staff _while in fucking office._ There is _no_ fucking precedent. There is _nothing._ All there is is Richie, figuring this shit out minute by literal minute.

When Eddie had come back, Richie hadn’t said anything. He’d still kept going out with him, seeing him at night when Eddie draws him to his bedroom— which happens more often than not, the longer they’re together. Richie doesn’t let Eddie take his clothes off, but just buries his face in his chest until Eddie falls asleep, instead.

He keeps his secrets for longer than he thought he’d manage. With all the shit going on recently on a global stage, it’s easy for Stan and Eddie and— everyone else, really, to overlook the little things that happen with Richie. Coming off T had been the biggest thing to hide, after the obvious, but once he was over that hurdle, he’s into fairly smooth sailing. He slips under the radar as best as he can for as long as he can. With a combination of intricate lies, his own unique brand of humor, a conveniently large frame, and a uniquely busy life, Richie makes it to twenty-eight weeks before anyone figures him out.

It all starts falling apart with a text from Stan. There’s an image attached, of a magazine in Stan’s hand. He’s folded back the page so there’s one picture obviously front and center, blurry but still clearly Richie, leaving his obstetrician’s office. The doorway is instantly recognizable to him, and he breaks into a cold sweat.

 _Is this really you?_ Stan’s text reads. Richie doesn’t know if it’s better to confirm or deny, if the truth or a lie will better serve him right now. A second text comes through from Stan. _Because people are speculating that you’re not really gay and that you’ve knocked some girl up. Which are alarming rumors._

Richie huffs a humorless laugh. Stan, of course, knows everything; the two of them are best friends, let alone the fact that they dated in college and that Stan is intimately familiar with the exact intricacies and anatomy of Richie’s body. He knows not only exactly how gay Richie is and how deeply in love with Eddie he is, he _also_ knows how absurdly _impossible_ it is for Richie to go around impregnating _anybody._

 **_I’m on my way in,_ **Richie texts back. He’s only a few streets away, so he heads straight for the Oval Office. Just for shits, he cuts through the rose garden and loops around; that way, he can stop in his office first. He has to skirt past Mike’s office to get there, but he makes it without being seen, somehow. Impossibly, it seems, but he manages to get his office door shut and locked behind himself for anyone spots him.

After a couple of moments where he just stands and breathes deeply, Richie starts cataloguing everything available to him to make this situation any easier. He’s still in his coat, because it’s still February, which has been tremendously helpful, even if it doesn’t get all _that_ cold in DC in the winter. He evaluates what he’s wearing under it and how obvious it makes him look. In the end, he has no idea what to do.

He knows what he _wants_ to do. He has a sonogram he keeps in his pocket at all times, and he wants to pull that out and show it to Eddie and say, _look, look at this, we made this and I’ve had to keep her to myself for so long but now you can know, too._ But he can’t do that. He can’t— He _can’t._ It’s not right to make Eddie choose like that. He has his priority, his _job,_ and he can’t stop that. He’s not allowed to, and Richie’s not allowed to ask him to.

There’s a quick knock at his door. Richie shouts, “Just a sec!” before turning to evaluate himself in the mirror hanging off the back of his door. He looks good enough to pass for normal, by his own estimation, for as long as he needs to until he can get Eddie alone and tell him what’s going on. Eddie needs to know first, and everything else can come after.

The quick knock comes again, and then Stan’s voice saying, “Tozier, we need to go _now.”_

Richie makes eye contact with his own terrified reflection before squaring his shoulders and opening the door back up. Stan’s on the other side, looking as put-together as ever, even though his hair’s slightly messier than normal and his eyes look a little wild.

“Come with me _right_ _now,”_ Stan says, so fast and sharp that Richie flashes back to being escorted to the principal’s office as a kid. He wants to drop his gaze to his shoes accordingly, but he’s not only an adult now, he’s the _Chief of Staff_ for the Kaspbrak administration, and it’s his job to keep his shit together so that he can help keep everybody _else’s_ shit together. Instead, he keeps his chin up as he follows Stan down to Eddie’s office. Regina weaves between their ankles as they go, and Richie wants to stop and scoop her up, just for her warm, comforting weight, but he knows he can’t. Maybe after, but not yet, not now.

“What does Eddie know?” Richie asks. He doesn’t even know how much _Stan_ knows, but he knows that Stan knows enough. He stops Richie right outside the Oval Office with a hand on his wrist; before he starts talking, he checks over his shoulder, then over Richie’s, making sure they’re alone.

After a beat where Richie feels like he’s about to blow apart at the seams, Stan says, “All he knows is that there was a picture taken of you that has sparked rumors that you’re seeing someone. That’s it.”

Richie feels bewildered enough to ask, “That’s _it?”_ before determining what his brain-to-mouth filter should actually allow through. Stan doesn’t smile, but his face is splotched with patches of color as he starts looking more and more agitated.

“That’s it,” Stan tells him. He raps on the door, then turns to Richie and says, with more urgency than Richie can remember him using in his tone in years, “You know I’m here for you, Toz— Richie. I’m here for you. Outside of the jobs and the office, I’m here for _you._ Okay?”

Richie nods jerkily, feeling the backs of his eyes prickle, his nose burning. Stan yanks him in for a quick hug, rubbing Richie’s back in the brief moment that Richie tucks his face into Stan’s throat and hugs him back. The door beside them opens, and one of Eddie’s newer Secret Service guys— Richie knows him, everything _about_ him, his name is Jack Carrey and he has two sisters— is on the other side. Richie smiles at him, because it’s his job to keep everything running smoothly. Not as Chief of Staff, as _Richie Tozier._

“He just asked me to send for you again,” Jack says. Richie peels away from Stan to clap Jack on the arm.

“Well, you did a great job, because here I am,” Richie tells him. Stan squeezes Richie’s wrist before letting him go into the Oval Office. Jack steps out into the hall after him. “Where’re you going?”

“The President’s requested I make myself scarce for a couple of minutes if I want to keep having a career here,” Jack says. Richie’s brow furrows as Jack shuts the door between them. He has no choice but to turn, though, and look into the room to find Eddie, standing by the windows, a crumpled page from a magazine in his hands. Richie’s heart sinks.

“Mr. President?” Richie asks, tentative. He’s not sure if it’s the right choice, and being so quiet and small feels weird, so he straightens his back and lifts his chin and laughs before he says, “So, another scandal? What’re we looking at tod—”

“Richie,” Eddie says, and Richie deflates a little. “What’s going on?”

“What?” Richie asks. He doesn’t know what else to say, what else there is _to_ say. “Wh— What do you mean? Eds, if you think I’m going around sleeping with women behind your back, you’ve got another thing comin—”

“That’s not what I mean,” Eddie says. He finally turns to Richie. His face is bone-white, pale and drained of color. He looks almost fucking _sick_ as he goes back to his desk and sits down heavily in his chair, rubbing at his temples. Richie knew that the presidency was going to age Eddie, because it ages everybody who takes office, but he’s only realizing now just how much older Eddie seems now than when they started this whole thing.

“I didn’t cheat on you,” Richie tells him, because it feels like the easiest part of all of this to tell the truth about. “And obviously I didn’t knock anybody up.”

“Obviously,” Eddie echoes. He doesn’t sound like he’s joking with him, not yet. Instead, he just smoothes out the magazine page on his desk and stares down at it. “So, what is this, then? If it’s not what everybody’s saying it is.”

If a pin had dropped in that room in that moment, it probably would’ve deafened them both. Richie couldn’t breathe, could barely move for fear of breaking the fragility in the air. When he does shift, it all shatters, and Eddie looks back up at him with splotches of red spread high across his cheeks in angry patches.

“I’m so sorry,” Richie manages to say, because Eddie looks _mad._ He hadn’t known what to expect, and had really should’ve known Eddie would get mad at him, but he wasn’t really prepared for that anger directed _at him,_ and it makes the tears burning behind his eyes spring forward and fall faster than he can stop. His hormones are out of whack, so it’s harder to get a grip than it should be; he presses the heels of his hands hard into his eye sockets under the frames of his glasses and exhales shakily.

“Richie, _no, I'm_ sorry,” Eddie says. His voice is so soft that Richie’s crying breaks on another sob, and he covers his entire face with his hands, mortified and out-of-control. His heart’s pounding so fast it’s about ready to come out through his throat.

“Wh—What’re you sorry for?” Richie manages to ask, around hiccuping sobs. Eddie’s already shoved away from his desk and made his way to Richie where he stands in the dead center of the Oval Office, shaking, unsure of what to do or where to go. Eddie’s hand touches his shoulder, guides him into sitting down on the sofa beside him.

“Take a breath, Richie,” Eddie tells him, voice firm and steady when nothing else in Richie’s life feels that way. “In and out. I got you. You’re okay.”

Richie shakes his head vigorously, turning to try and squirm away from Eddie’s grip, but he can’t manage it; when Eddie pulls him back in, he goes without a second thought.

“You can tell me what’s going on,” Eddie tells Richie quietly, _so_ quietly, so nobody else can hear. This office has been here for over a hundred years, countless historical figures have done incredibly noteworthy things in here, and now these walls have to hear the confession Richie’s been keeping in for months now.

“I don’t think I can,” Richie admits, exhausted.

“You can tell me anything,” Eddie says. “I promise you, you can tell me anything.” Eddie takes a deep breath, Richie can hear it; he forces his eyes open to look at Eddie so he can make sure he’s not having a panic attack or anything. Even in this, he’s looking out for Eddie. “So, is it— Are you sick? Is that what it is, are you sick? Are you going to die?”

It’s such a fucking out-of-left-field question that Richie briefly stops crying and a confused laugh is startled out of him. Eddie frowns at him, when they manage to make eye contact again. It takes Richie a moment to calm down.

“No, I’m not gonna die,” Richie tells him. “Well, not for a while, I hope. Pretty much the opposite of that, actually.”

“The… The opposite of that, what’s the opposite of that?” Eddie tells him, looking more confused by the second. “You’re— not dying? You’re living, you’re—”

“Did you read the gossip part below the picture, Eds?” Richie asks. Eddie nods, so Richie says, painfully afraid, “So— So don’t you— The pieces are all there, Eds, c’mon, don’t— don’t make me spell it out for you.”

Eddie gets up from the sofa to speed-walk back over to his desk, snatching up the magazine page. His eyes skim the tiny paragraph of white text underneath the blurry picture of Richie before he says, “Yeah, but obviously you can’t actually get somebody pregnant, so y—”

Eddie stops. He looks down at the picture for a moment, and then the color’s gone from his face again. In the next moment, the magazine page is fluttering to the ground, and Eddie’s staring out the window for a long, _long_ minute, silent. Richie waits, his fingers laced together. After that minute ends, Eddie comes back to him and sits next to him again.

“I’m sorry,” Richie says again.

“Don’t be,” Eddie tells him. He drops his face into his hands and asks, quietly, “Would you— Okay. Tell me everything from the beginning.”

“There’s not much to tell,” Richie explains, voice shaking. He starts talking faster the more he speaks, unable to take a breath as he rushes out, “I thought I couldn’t conceive after being on T so long and I don’t even get my period anymore and _you_ know that, you know that, and— and we thought you were shooting blanks, I swear, I didn’t _know,_ and then I— I was sick and Stan made me go to the doctor and I told you guys it was a stomach bug but I was— I was pregnant.”

Eddie lifts his head out of his hands when Richie stops. He nods slowly, then exhales even slower.

“Well,” Richie amends, _“am.”_

“What?” Eddie asks.

“I _am_ pregnant, I’m still pregnant,” Richie tells him. Eddie’s head shoots up out of his palms and he looks to Richie with the wildest look Richie thinks he’s ever seen on his face. It makes his stomach twist just to look at it.

“How far— Have you dec— Oh, my _God,”_ Eddie says, scrubbing his hands over his face, then through his hair. “Okay. Okay, first things first, have you— have you decided what you want to do?”

Richie raises an eyebrow at him, then huffs a laugh. “Eds, I think I’ve gotta keep it at this point, I think we’re past the point of no return.”

Eddie’s eyes drop down to the magazine picture, still abandoned on the floor where it fluttered to the carpet in Eddie’s panic. In the next beat, he looks to Richie’s face, and then his abdomen, his hands coming up quick before dropping into his lap again. He looks so completely at a loss, just like Richie feels inside.

“How far along are you?” Eddie asks. Richie looks back down to his hands again. “Richie. How far—”

“Twenty-eight weeks,” Richie confesses. Eddie’s breath _whooshes_ out of him as Richie adds, “Seven months.”

“Seven months,” Eddie echoes. “Seven _months.”_

Richie’s eyes go hot again, filled with tears and burning at the backs. He hiccups on another sob and folds in on himself, all layers, his jacket and his blazer and his loose shirt underneath. Eddie’s hand touches his shoulder, and Richie tightens up the ball he’s curling into, feeling more like he’s a scared teenager than a grown-ass adult.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Eddie asks. He sounds so sad, Richie sobs again. “And please— Richie, please, tell me the truth. Please.”

There’s a beat where Richie contemplates lying again, making something up so he can just go away and Eddie can do what he needs to do as president. On the other side, though — the bigger side of his brain and his heart — he knows Eddie needs to make decisions for himself, not have them made for him.

“Because I knew the baby had to be first priority and I didn’t want you to have to choose,” Richie admits. _“I_ can choose, I can do that, I have that— that luxury, but you _don’t,_ and you— The job has to come first. And I knew that if I— If I told you—”

Eddie reaches out, cups Richie’s face in his hand, and lifts it to look at him. They make direct eye contact in silence for a short moment before Eddie says, “Did you think I wouldn’t choose you? Do you think you’re not my first priority?”

“I’m not, and we both know I’m not, _and_ we both know I _can’t_ be,” Richie insists, but Eddie shakes his head, taking Richie’s face completely between both of his hands, looking hard into his eyes. His own eyes are red-rimmed, starting to tear up themselves, but they don’t spill over, not yet.

“You’re my priority,” Eddie tells him. “The Presiden— You know, President Kaspbrak, his first priority is the country, but I’m not that guy and you _know_ I’m not that guy, Richie. I’m jus— I’m _Eddie._ I’m Eddie.”

“You’re Eddie,” Richie echoes.

“And you’re Richie,” Eddie reminds him. “Before anything else, we’re that. Okay?”

“Okay,” Richie agrees, breathless. Eddie leans in and kisses him, soft and chaste, close-mouthed. When he draws back, Eddie looks impossibly soft and still desperately pale.

“You’re my first priority,” Eddie tells him. “The baby is my first priority. You’re my life. I’ll do anything to keep you safe.”

“People are going to freak out,” Richie reminds him. All of his fears are bubbling up, now, coming spilling out of his mouth when there’s nowhere left inside him for them to go. “You’re going to be ruined. You’re probably going to get fucking impeached—”

“There’s nothing in the Constitution about this,” Eddie says. Richie huffs a dry laugh.

“Believe me, I’ve looked,” Richie tells him. “I’ve looked _everywhere,_ I have no _idea_ what to do, Eds, there’s no _precedent_ for this, and I just— I just want to keep her safe. And you. As much as I can.”

Eddie leans back and looks at Richie _hard_ before asking, “Sh— Her? Is it— You already know, we’re having a girl? It’s a girl?”

“Well, as far as we know,” Richie tells him. “Could be a misleading boy like me.”

“Not misleading,” Eddie disagrees. “Perfect, perfectly yourself. Are they— She’s okay, right? Healthy and everything?”

“Actually one-hundred-percent healthy,” Richie’s proud to tell him. “I’ve been trying really hard for her, Eddie. To make sure everything’s okay. I read all the books and I eat everything my doctor tells me to. I haven’t smoked, I haven’t drank. Dr. Daniels says she’s right on schedule, everything’s good.”

Eddie nods frantically, taking Richie’s hands in his for a moment before he reaches out to tug on Richie’s jacket. “Can I— Can I see?”

Richie hesitates, because he has to. He’s spent years keeping the fact that he’s trans a secret from most people, and seven months now keeping his pregnancy a secret from absolutely _everybody._ It’s a gut reaction. In the next beat of his heart, though, he remembers this is _Eddie,_ and he nods.

Eddie unzips his jacket and pushes it off of his shoulders. Richie lets him strip it off of him before he pulls off Richie’s blazer and unbuttons his shirt underneath. By the time he gets to Richie’s undershirt, he has to untuck it, but then he’s at Richie’s skin. He pushes the undershirt up and lets his hands skim over Richie’s belly. It’s the first time Richie’s let him see him naked in months, the first time he’s let him directly touch him anywhere _near_ his abdomen in just as long.

“Fuck,” Eddie says. Richie feels like he has butterflies in his stomach, but he recognizes the feeling quickly as the baby kicking at his insides. He grabs Eddie’s hand by the wrist and moves it accordingly until Eddie’s eyes dart up to meet his, breath inhaling sharply in shock. “Is—”

“That’s her,” Richie tells him. Eddie shakes his head, the unshed tears finally brimming over as Eddie laughs shakily and folds himself over Richie, pressing his forehead to his belly. Now that he doesn’t have to hide anymore, Richie feels less terrified, less _alone_ than he has in so, _so_ long.

“Thank you for telling me,” Eddie says. “I’m so sorry you felt like you couldn’t.”

“I’m so sorry I didn’t,” Richie replies. Eddie lifts his head and cups Richie’s face in one hand, kissing him slow and sweet.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Eddie tells him. “You don’t. Don’t be sorry. We’ll talk about it, we’ll figure everything out—”

“There’s going to be a scandal—”

“We’ll talk to Stan and we’ll figure everything out,” Eddie says again. “It’s going to be okay. Got it?”

“Got it,” Richie says, with a hint of a smile.

“Promise?” Eddie asks, smiling himself now, too.

“Promise,” Richie agrees. Eddie draws him back in for a hug this time, a tight embrace where Richie envelops him close and Eddie feels impossibly small under him. After a beat, Eddie kisses his throat and pulls back.

“Let’s go figure this shit out,” he says, before standing. Richie nods, takes the hand he’s offered, and stands.

**Author's Note:**

> You can (and should!) come chat with me on Twitter at [@nicolelianesolo](https://twitter.com/nicolelianesolo) and/or on Tumblr at [andillwriteyouatragedy](http://andillwriteyouatragedy.tumblr.com/).


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